Monsters Seek Out Other Monsters
by SALJStella
Summary: If Sam knew how hard this was for Dean, he wouldn't let him on this way. But right now, he's too broken to care, and Dean's always been the one who put the pieces of his brother back together, even if this is a new way to do it. Wincest.
1. Prologue: The Silent, Brooding Type

A/N: So, here we go: My very first, brand new, shiny Supernatural-fic! I'm excited and nervous as ever, so cross your fingers that I do well. XD This right here is just a short prologue, so the next chapter will be longer. And I must tell you, I'm not an SPN-geek, so I've only seen the second season, during which this fic takes place, _once, _(gasp, I know!) so it's not going to be super-canon. In fact, I'll probably just follow the storyline when I feel like it. XD No, but it takes place when Sam is in that phase where he feels like the demon-part of him is taking over. There are going to be some elements from actual episodes, some elements of my twisted mind, and I hope you like it!

Dedication: So, this fic is for Sarah… Because she said that if I dedicated this fic to her, she'd write another Wincest-fic. Come on, darling… I've kept up my end of the bargain. ;)

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**Prologue: The Silent, Brooding Type**

When Sam and Dean were younger, Sam went through a phase where everything seemed interesting. And he was never the kind of kid that could just observe something and think about it to himself, he had to verbalize it.

"Look. Dean, look," tugging on Dean's arm. "That tree over there, it looks a bit like a witch! See that, with the bend and the twigs there that look like fingers? Dean! Look!"

And Dean would roll his eyes, because he'd reached the age and the maturity of a hunter that knew that witches didn't look like they did in the storybooks, they looked like ordinary people, just with that something in their eyes. And he rolled his eyes because that was what he was supposed to do, as the cocky older brother, because that was what he was trained to do. His cynicism started at an early age. No wonder he is the way he is now…

Sam used to tell Dean whatever was on his mind. He'd probably tell anyone who wanted to hear, but that didn't cover a lot of people, and in his teens, as he started to realize that, he turned into that quietly solemn, gangly boy he was when he went to college. And then when he came back, it took some work, but after a while, Dean felt the way he used to around him. Like he was the only one who had access to Sam's head. The one place he really felt was home.

That's why he's not sure how to handle this. If this is the way Sam's going to be now, he'd prefer the chatty nine year-old, because seriously, aren't they supposed to have grown out of this? Isn't now when they're supposed to be able to communicate, even if it's in their own not-so-functioning way?

"Hey," Dean says and glances at Sam at the corner of his eye. "You okay? Or, I mean… What's with the emo-phase?"

Sam doesn't look up, even though Dean knows he's listening. His gaze jumps from his fingernails to out the window to the road in front of them.

"I'm fine," he mumbles.

Dean waits.

"Until the next time I get possessed by something that can sense the demon blood in me, that is."

Dean rolls his eyes, tries to dismiss this as another one of Sam's stupid, obsessive thoughts, even though he feels his grip on the wheel tightening.

"Sam, let it go. I don't know how many times I'm going to have to tell you that you're not evil, and I'm not going to let any yellow-eyed son of a bitch turn you into some kind of demon soldier, but if I have to pound it into your head, I will."

Sam glares halfheartedly at him before looking out the window again. He doesn't talk back, but he's not convinced, either. Probably because it's harder for Dean to sound convincing when he doesn't believe it himself.

He knows that this is hard for Sam. Finding out about the plans the yellow-eyed demon has for him is like getting everything confirmed, everything Dean knows he's been afraid of all his life: _You're a freak, you're a monster, you don't belong. _

Dean's had those thoughts, too, but embraced them rather than escaping from them. Sam's never been able to do that. It's part of the good boy-complex, probably, and as useful as that complex is during hunts, Dean wishes Sam could just… Tone it down a bit on his free time.

Or at least talk about it. Like he usually does.

Because Dean has no idea how to act with Sam when he's like this.

"You're a good person, Sam," Dean says, and Sam gives him one of those glares again. "A lot better than I will ever be, in fact."

He means it. Truth is, he can't remember he was this sincere about something he told Sam. But Dean can't _sound _like he means it, because that's just another thing that Sam is good at, that he isn't. He can bring his emotions out enough to actually express concern for other people, he can reach out to those who need it. That's him. That's not Dean.

Sam doesn't answer him for a while. And when he speaks up, he sounds a lot more like he's talking to himself than to Dean.

"He said he had plans for me," he mumbles, for the millionth time, looking down at his nails again. "For me, and children like me."

Dean looks at him. Only a second, which is enough to see the pain in his little brother's features. But then he looks forward again, his grip on the wheel tightening even further, and doesn't even try to think of something to say. Tries to think that who cares if Sam wants to be all grumpy, as long as he can keep a straight face during the next hunt.

Sam used to be the one who talked. He used to be the one of the Winchester brothers who shared, let the other one in, because he trusted him, because their relationship was solid, and whatever was on his mind, if it were something bad, Dean would protect him from it. Simple as that.

Now, after finally starting to be brothers again, Sam has taken over the part Dean used to play. The one that shoulders blame, the one that hates himself for mistakes that were beyond his control and refuses to listen to anyone who tells him that it's not his fault.

He's become everything that Dean's tried to keep him from being. And Dean can't handle that.

So instead of coaxing, trying to bring something out of Sam, or at least do it the hard way and talk non-stop about what a good person Sam is until they get to the destination of their hunt, Dean doesn't say a word. He turns the music up, lets the electric guitars drown the uneasy feeling in his gut and tries to think that if Sam wants to be an idiot, that's his damn problem.


	2. No Need For Words

A/N: Heyhey, we have the first official full-length chapter right here! I figured I'd update this thing soon, since you don't get that much out of a 1000-word prologue, and hey, I aim to please. So I hope you like this! Oh, and as I've had pointed out by a full-blown SPN-geek: Yeah, Sam can't know about the demon blood in him just yet, since this takes place before he dies, sort of middle-second season. And again, I mostly follow the show's storyline when it fits me, but I understand if it's a bit confusing…

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**1: No Need For Words**

The first days of college. Sam remembers them as if they were yesterday.

He remembers arriving there, his worn backpack stuffed with the few belongings that were actually _his, _not part of the twisted collective he came from, where he wasn't allowed to ask for anything, let alone claim it as his own. And he remembers he was nervous as hell, when someone came up to him and asked if he was looking for his dorm, he actually flinched.

Sam never felt like he belonged in this wonderful land of _normality, _not even when he'd gotten past that phase. He actually felt like more of a freak than ever during those years. All he could do was _pretending. _

He was surrounded by people that didn't know Sam that could rabble exorcism spells in Latin in his sleep, or throw a knife and hit a target twenty feet away. Those kids knew Sam, funny, social, and corky in a cute way. Not a weird way. And Sam could play along with that, he'd pretend until all the suppressed reality gave him brain tumors, as long as he got to fit in with them.

The reason Sam still remembers those first days of college so clearly is that in those memories, a deep, pitch-black shame is rooted so deep that he simply can't forget it, no matter how hard he tries.

He's ashamed because college, especially those first days of it, made him so happy. Even though he was pissed at dad, and even though he missed Dean like a part of his body had been torn off, he was happy. And those rare moments when Dean actually acknowledge how hurt he was when Sam went away, Sam can barely stand to look at him, because those years, that were so painful to Dean, were the happiest ones in his life.

Sam had felt like a freak when he was hunting with dad and Dean. And he felt even more like a freak in school. But he was still happier there.

He had to pretend just as much when he was with his family. The difference was that in school, at least the people around him thought he was normal.

It's hard not to remember them fondly. Those four years when he was just like everybody else.

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Sam's fallen asleep in the front seat by the time they get to the motel, head slumped heavily against the car door, and as usual, Dean's a little reluctant to wake him up, now that he looks so damn peaceful. Especially now days, when every sleep Sam falls into that goes any deeper than ten minute-nap ends with him thrashing and whimpering in some weird nightmare.

Dean hates those damn nightmares. Almost as much as he hates how closed down Sam is on what they are about.

Dean turns the ignition key, and turns to Sam as the humming of the engine quiets down. As usual, it only takes a couple of seconds before Sam shifts slightly, lifting one hand to rub against his face. Dean keeps watching him, waiting patiently for the moment when Sam will turn to him with half-closed eyes and ask if they're already here.

Yup, there it is. When Sam's dropped his hand, he stares blankly in front of him for a minute before he turns his half-slumped head towards Dean.

"We're here already?" he grumbles. If it had been anyone else, Dean would've been slightly embarrassed over just how many of these little quirks of Sam's he's got down to a tee.

"Yeah, we are," he answers, slapping Sam's shoulder weakly to get him going. "Get the bags, lazy-ass. I'll see if they have any rooms."

He gets out of the car without waiting for a reply. Maybe he should've stayed with Sam until he'd made sure that he wouldn't go back to sleep, because Dean manages to go get them a room, pay for it, flirt with the receptionist and unlock the bright red door to their room before he hears the passenger's door open and close.

Sam stumbles in with their bags as Dean takes off his leather jacket and tosses it on a chair. When he turns around to look at his little brother, it's another one of those moments when he realizes just how bad things are with him. Sam's lips are red and chapped from his constant, probably subconscious biting on them, and the circles under his eyes are deep, even though he's been sleeping for almost an hour. Dean remembers when Sam was a kid, just old enough to understand what hunting was all about and young enough to not be used to it, and he was so afraid of the dark that he could sleep only in the car, in broad daylight, where the sound of the engine calmed him.

Even though Dean and Sam always slept in the same bed, all tangled limbs and sweat, Dean couldn't keep his fear away during the nights.

Those old feelings of insufficiency come rushing back to Dean at that thought. He gets even more frustrated when he remembers that sleeping in the bed with Sam was the only thing that kept _his _fear of the dark at bay.

Apparently he's still not enough to keep Sam's inner demons away. Not the same way as Sam is enough for him.

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Dean has never doubted for a second that no one understands him the way Sam does. But it's when Sam goes through these phases that he's reminded of just how different they are.

Dean knows he's a good person. He's had his little "what's my purpose in life"-moments, like all men get when they've pushed down feelings for a certain period of time, and even then, it was usually on the tail end of a bottle. Then he questioned most things about himself, what he was doing and why, but it passed with the hangover.

Most of the time, he doesn't doubt it. He's a good person, and he brings good to the world. On a purely objective and logical level, he knows that.

The fact that he hates himself so much that it hurts sometimes is a different manner.

That's why Dean can't for the life of him understand why Sam seems to have these phases more and more often these days. Or, okay, sure he can understand it. Again, at least on a purely technical level. Sam's never felt like he fitted anywhere, not when they were hunting, and not in college, and it's made him doubt himself. Now that the demon blood has made him do those horrible things, like when he was about to kill Jo, it matches every bad thought he's ever had about himself, and in his own head, he's just bad enough of a person to voluntarily be part of some weird-ass demon army. Fine, Dean gets that much. What he doesn't get is why Sam has those self-blaming thoughts to begin with.

If Dean were Sam, he'd be such a narcissist that he'd probably jack off to his own reflection.

Seriously. Sam's the college boy. He does things for his own sake, can say no to dad without losing his love and without struggling with self-hatred for years afterwards. He's in touch with his emotions and knows the square root of stuff and he has pretty hair and puppy-eyes.

If Dean could be anything like the man Sam is, that he's grown into, he'd love himself like hell. But of course, he can't tell Sam that.

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Sam thought he'd seen every nightmare he could have at this point. Whether it's his own mind messing with him and they're a product of his guilt over Jess, or his worry over what he might become, or if it's the demon that wants to make him as vulnerable and worn thin as possible before it strikes. Neither his mind nor the demon can be creative enough to think of something new for every night, and at this point, he thought he'd seen everything either of them could come up with.

Tonight proves him wrong, though. Sam falls asleep hours after Dean, and when he does, he wakes up after barely fifteen minutes, screaming incoherently, trying to wrestle his way out of the twisted sheets with the flashes from his nightmare still etched onto his retina, god, if Sam could scratch his eyes out to get rid off these images, he would.

When Sam manages to get out of bed, he from somewhere finds the presence to think that he can't throw up right there on the floor. He stumbles into the bathroom, not even managing to turn on the lights. Just drops to his knees, his stomach wringing out like a dishcloth and the little dinner he managed to get down bitter as it slides over his tongue and into the toilet.

Afterwards, Sam leans his forehead against the porcelain, trying to catch his breath. Through closed lids, he sees the lights being turned on, and he looks up, startled. He shouldn't be the least bit surprised that it's Dean standing there leaned against the doorframe, not the demon, but as it is, the sight of his brother in nothing but his boxers, hair ruffled and puffy eyes, brings the images of the nightmare up again, and before Dean can even ask him what's the matter, Sam's stuck his head in the toilet again, nothing but bile coming up.

The stomach acid burns on his lips, stinging in the wounds Sam's inflicted on himself when he bites them. But even through the pain and the heart-clutching, chilling panic, he feels Dean stepping up next to him, brushing hair out of his face with a touch more loving than he'd ever dare if Sam hadn't been so vulnerable, and waits him out.

When he's sure that Sam is done, Dean pulls him off his knees and sets him down on the toilet lid. Sam lets him, trying to ignore how good it feels to be taken care of, but he can't look Dean in the eye, because he knows exactly what kind of eyes would look back at him. Dean would look worried, worried in that big-brother way and Sam would just adore him even more. Be even more afraid for what might happen to him.

He doesn't get away that easily, though. When Dean's sat him down, he takes a glass from the little shelf above Sam's head, fills it with water and hands it to his brother, who drinks it gratefully. Then he sits down in front of Sam, staring at him until Sam realizes that he won't say a damn word until Sam looks at him, so he lifts his eyes, and yup, there it is.

Dean is annoyed, in advance, because he's set on the fact that when he asks Sam what he dreamt about, Sam will give him a dark look and walk past him, back to bed. That's what he's done all the other nights, but those nights haven't been this bad. Then Sam had woken up, panted for a few seconds, but managing to calm down after a bit. Not like this.

Maybe that's why Dean's eyes are different tonight. Underneath the usual annoyance, he's looking at him like he's the most precious thing in the world. Despite the horrible, horrible things Sam knows now that he's very capable of doing.

"Let's be straight here," Dean says, almost growls, like he's all set on having to beat information out of Sam. "I have no fucking clue why you've closed down on me lately, and I'm not pretending to have. But if this is how bad it's going to be from now on, I don't care if I have to beat your ass until you talk to me."

Sam can't look at him. Dean sighs, scoots a little closer, makes it harder to ignore him.

"Tell me what it was, damn it," Dean demands, folding his arms around his knees. When Sam still doesn't answer, he sighs again, but not like he's annoyed now. More like he doesn't understand why these stupid visions and demon bleedings has to happen to his Sammy of all people. "What are we going to do with you, huh? Can't you have any good dreams? Sunshine, lollipops… Giant libraries filled with dusty old books? You know, those kind of stuff you like?"

"It was about you."

Sam's voice doesn't sound like his own. He feels his fingers squeeze the glass unnaturally hard.

"Me?"

"Yeah. We were on a hunt, trying to find the yellow-eyed demon, and I… I ki-killed…"

He can't get the last word out. The image is vivid enough as it is, the dream had been so lifelike.

It's all plays out before him again. Sneaking up behind Dean, knife raised, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing, his brother's blood slick on his hands…

And he'd liked it. In the dream, he'd liked it.

That thought makes Sam's face burn in shame, and he'd probably throw up again if there'd been anything left in his stomach at all. Even though he can't even tell Dean exactly what had happened in the dream, he understands, of course he does, and of course he's more worried about Sam than he is about himself, despite the fact that Sam's dream could easily be some kind of vision of the future.

Hell, if Sam had a gun cocked against Dean's head, the only thing about the situation that would have Dean upset would be if Sam looked the least bit unhappy. That devotion is cute in some situations, but right now, when Dean is in real danger, it's just annoying.

Sam can't look at Dean anymore, but knows just by his silence that he's not going anywhere. To him, Sam's nightmare doesn't mean anything, just another stupid thing messing with his little brother's head, and even if it were more than that, Dean would just laugh at its face, because hell if he's going to leave Sam. No matter how life-threatening it is to him.

That thought makes Sam want to pick him up and shake him, just not right now. He's so tired, which is annoying, because he doesn't want to sleep. He's too tired to think about Dean's safety, too tired to be ashamed of that, and Dean seems to sense that, because he doesn't ask anything else.

At this point, he's just glad that Sam's said two words to him about what's going on with him. He's gotten more out of Sam tonight than he has since he got those damn words in his head: _I have plans for you, and children like you. _

But Dean gets that this is not the time to push Sam further. He just takes the glass from Sam's hand, grabs him around the shoulders, pulls him to his feet and half-leads, half-drags him to his bed. Sam wants to warn Dean, tell him about the danger he's in just by sleeping in the same room as him, but the softness of the mattress engulfs him and he just can't keep his head above the water.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," he hears Dean's voice, sounding like it's from far away. "We'll be fine."

Sam wants to protest, but he falls asleep as quickly as if someone's banged him over the head. Dean watches him for a minute, waiting for him to start thrashing again. When he doesn't, Dean out of reflex makes an attempt to crawl into bed next to him, keeping him safe from the darkness like he used to, but then he remembers not to.

Sometimes he forgets they're not kids anymore. And he never thought he'd miss those days, but right now, things seem to have been a lot less complicated then.


	3. Outside Looker

A/N: Yay, finally an update! I've been slow as hell, I know. School's been… Well, school. Either way, I'm back on track, and I hope you'll like my little dash of angsty Winchesters! Oh, and just to be clear: This chapter takes place during the episode Playthings, but it doesn't follow the actual storyline. Or something. It'll make sense when you read it. XD

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**2: Outside Looker**

When Sam opens his eyes again, the dawn is just breaking up, pale light flowing through a crack in the curtain. His tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth and the taste at the back of his throat is like the one you feel when you walk into a public bathroom where the stench is so strong that you can literally taste it. He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, groaning softly. Tonight has been just like any other night. He knows he fell asleep right after Dean had gotten him back to bed, so he must've slept for quite some time, but he's still not rested. Now days, when he can fall asleep, he always ends up wishing he couldn't.

Those damn images.

Jess' dead eyes staring down at him. And that's on good nights. When he doesn't dream about killing Dean.

Sam sits up in his bed and brushes his hair, stiff with sweat, out of his eyes. Right now, he's just happy that he managed to keep his panic quiet for the rest of the night. Dean was worried enough after that first nightmare; if he'd had to calm Sam down during the rest of the night, he wouldn't have slept at all.

Despite the annoying grinding in his head, Sam staggers to his feet and out to the bathroom. Dean won't wake up for another six hours, to the very least, so he can still go back to sleep, but not before he can get this damn taste out of his mouth. He sits down on the closed toilet, taps the glass on the sink full and gulps down two drinks of murky, ill-tasting water.

When Sam goes back out, he sits down on the edge of the bed and looks at the heap of rumpled sheets that's Dean's bed. Dean's blankets are always a complete mess. He's a wild sleeper, the majority of all the times they had to share beds in their childhood was more or less a wrestling match, with Dean turning sides every five minutes until Sam hissed _Dean, would you just lay still _and Dean muttered back _shut up, bitch _and coiled an arm around Sam's waist, sleeping with him like a stuffed animal the rest of the night, because that was the one thing that could keep him still.

Dean isn't flinging around in his sleep now. He's on his back, his head fallen to the side, facing Sam. His natural restlessness isn't as obvious now as it is some nights, but even now, there's a small crease between his eyebrows, a constant worry. Like he's prepared to jump up at any given second, in case Sam needs it, if something is hurting him, whether it's an outside factor or something in his head.

It isn't until now that Sam notices the deep circles under Dean's eyes. The tension around his mouth.

Sam sits there and watches his brother for a couple of minutes. Then he crawls down under the blankets. He wants to go to sleep right away, but he can't even close his eyes until he's lied there and kept watching Dean for a while.

Just to make sure that he's okay. That Sam hasn't killed him in his sleep, or something.

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Dean's found a case. In Cornwall, Connecticut, of all places. They've been there before, of course, they've been in every state except for two, and Sam remembers Connecticut. Especially Cornwall is such a sweet town, old houses with big gardens and old maple trees in ancient forests were the kids play, happy-happy-happy, such a perfect little town, and for some reason, Sam's stomach turns at the idea of going there.

"What?" Dean asks when he sees the look on Sam's face, and goes on: "I know you're freaking out about… Whatever, but we might as well do some work while you're freaking out, right?"

Sam glances up at him. Sometimes it's annoying as hell to spend every woken second with someone who can read you so well that it's impossible to keep any secrets from him. This isn't one of those times.

But not even Dean knows him so well that he can actually read his mind. If Sam wants him to understand just how he feels right now, exactly _what _he's freaking out about, he's going to have to talk to him.

"You're right," Sam says. "We'll go to Connecticut and hunt some ghosts, so we have an excuse to bury our feelings a little while longer."

"Now, there's a Winchester talking," Dean says, with that hint of playfulness back in his eyes, and closes the zipper of his duffel. "Come on. I'm not changing states before we've had a decent breakfast."

They find a nearby diner. The food is okay, which is a step up from most of the stuff they get to eat. Cheap motels are usually pretty close to a diner of the same price rank. Sam pokes around in his bacon and eggs, looks at Dean on the other end of the table and has one of those moments when he thinks about just how weird their childhood has been.

People aren't meant to be raised on greasy diner food.

Then Dean looks up, their eyes meet and he smiles weakly because he thinks that Sam needs it, and then Sam has one of those moments when he loves him so much that it physically aches.

"Stop that," Dean says and looks down again.

"What?"

"Those puppy eyes might've worked on dad, but they won't on me."

"I'm not trying to get you to do anything."

"Pff."

Sam grins and finds the strength to finish his breakfast. For these fifteen-or-so minutes, things are pretty enjoyable.

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They arrive at the hotel that's supposedly haunted. Talk to the owner, Susan. Dean finds some weird symbol that they suspect his hoodoo. Sam thinks he's doing a pretty good job, acting like everything's normal. He's played many roles over the years, obedient son, ambitious student, that on top of the many mini-roles of priest, FBI agent, journalist, and if he tries, he can think that this is no different than all those times.

The worst part is that he doesn't know exactly what he's upset over. Not that he doesn't have reason to be. He shares the blood of the thing that killed his mother and his girlfriend. It will most likely force him to be part of some kind of demon army, and God knows how many of the people he loves that will suffer because of this, whether he fights it or not. But no matter how hard Sam tries, he can't even make himself believe that that's the main reason why everything's suddenly so hard.

It's not the actual situation that makes him so sad. It's something else. The way it makes him feel, which is… Not nearly as surprised as he should be.

He's not surprised at all that it turned out that he had demon blood in him. He can lie, he can make even Dean believe that's why he's upset, but it's not.

It's pretty practical that they don't even have to crack out the fake IDs for this one. They can come here as hotel guests who happen to be interested in their old antiques, and they don't even have to get in the car again to go to a motel, but just get a room here. And Sam is grateful, because for some reason, he's awfully tired.

Not that he isn't always now days. But it's nice to sleep in a bed where you can be sure that there aren't any alien life forms developing in the bedspread.

Dean gives him a glance as he collapses on the bed.

"All energy, aren't we?" he says as he walks into the bathroom.

Sam isn't sure if he's sarcastic or not, so he just refines from answering. He watches Dean through the open bathroom door as he goes through the toiletries on the sink. He has to do that in every new hotel they come to. If the cleaning ladies don't put free shaving gel on the sink, Dean will make an annoyed huff, go to his bag and get his own, put that on the sink so he doesn't have to get it in the morning when he's half-dead. A completely useless fact about him that Sam still knows to the very last detail.

"What do you make of it?" Dean asks as he sits down on his bed, leaning his elbows against his knees.

Sam turns his head towards him. It takes him a couple of seconds before he gets that Dean's talking about the case.

"I don't know," Sam says and puts one arm under his head. "It could be hoodoo, I guess… But that needs someone who practices it, it doesn't just come along by itself."

"Exactly. Who do we have? Susan?"

"No, not her. She's way too normal."

"What about the kid?"

"Not impossible. Lonely girl, bored at a scary hotel… But if so, Susan's not the one teaching her the stuff."

"She mentioned something about a grandmother. Rose. We should talk to her and…"

"The staff."

"Yeah."

There's a pause. Sam usually feels at least _some _kind of desire to go after these things they hunt, if not because he really wants it, then because innocent people will die if he doesn't, but right now, he's so damn tired that he could really imagine staying on this bed for the rest of the day and let this damn hotel and this damn hoodoo and this damn demon blood inside him take care of themselves.

Sam groans tiredly and puts one hand over his eyes.

Why does everything have to be so fucking hard?

Dean studies him. He has that big-brother look again, Sam knows that even without looking back at him.

"Let's search the place tomorrow, okay?" he says and gets up, walks over to Sam's bed. "You're no good if you'll pass out on the scene."

Sam takes his hand away and looks up at Dean. He looks freakishly tall from this angle.

"What?"

"You're exhausted, Sammy," Dean says and beckons at him to get up from the bed. "Didn't get much sleep tonight, as usual. Come on, let's get you out of those clothes."

He tries to keep the bitter undertone out of the words _as usual, _but he can't. At least not well enough for Sam to miss it. Sam sits up, but not to take his clothes off. The hunt, that seemed so unappealing a second ago, is suddenly something very important. That Dean tries to take away from him.

"I can hunt, Dean."

"I know you _can," _Dean says, with a sterner edge now. "But it's better if you do it when you're fit for it, and haven't spent the whole night thrashing around."

Sam turns his whole body towards him, subconsciously getting into attack position.

"Are you saying I'm too weak to take down a goddamn hoodoo witch?"

Dean gets that harsh thing over his eyes now, even though he's still struggling to stay calm. For Sam. Because little Sammy will get so upset if Dean is mad at him.

Suddenly, Sam wants nothing more than to smack his brother in the face. The irritation is like it's been brewing in him for months, and is finally coming out.

"Sam, if it's that damn important, _I _can go and do research on the place and you stay here," Dean snaps and puts his hands on his hips. "But no, I don't think you're fucking fit to hunt right now, and if you'd be honest with yourself, you'd see that you don't think so, either! God, Sammy, do you really think this family will be better off if the guy fighting for their lives is caught up angsting over his _destiny _and can barely stand on his feet?"

Sam feels his jaw clenching as he staggers to his feet, glaring down at Dean, enjoying the small leverage of height. In reality, he hates fighting with Dean, knows perfectly well how tiring it will be with the silent treatment and the dark looks for the rest of the day, but that's the worst part. Right now, it feels so good, so _good _to actually lash out at someone, especially someone that genuinely cares about him, smack away every helping hand that's reached out and that alone is reason for Sam to be worried, for him to see a pattern between this and his… Destiny.

"What's it to you?" he hisses through gritted teeth. "You don't give a shit about anyone but yourself, anyway. If this family dies, you'll just brood over it for a while, and then go off to the next town."

That's entirely untrue, and they both know it. But still, Sam hit something with that remark. He sees it in Dean's eyes, that brief glimpse of pain before he manages to cover it up and look down at the ground.

"You want to know what it is to me?" Dean bites back and looks up again. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm the one who sleeps in the same room as you every goddamn night, and who every goddamn _fucking _night has to see you wriggle around, and then when you wake up, you try to panic as quietly as possible so I won't notice. Okay? I'm the one who has to see you walking around looking like you're on a goddamn funeral all the time and refuse to tell me why! And I'm sick of it, okay, I'm fucking _sick _of it!"

His voice is raw, open, he's showing a side of himself that he doesn't want anyone to see, not even Sam. And Sam can't appreciate it, can't appreciate that pain in Dean's eyes or even sympathize with it, and he's disgusted with himself for it, in the meantime as he doesn't care at all.

Dean's self-sacrificing is so annoying to him right now. His concern, his feeble attempt to be there for him. Sam wants it all gone.

"So just get some goddamn sleep, would you?" Dean finishes off, gesturing to the bed, almost desperately. Sam keeps his expression blank.

"I'm so sorry if my future as a demon soldier is inconvenient to you, Dean," he says calmly. "But if I'm that much trouble, you're free to leave."

Dean glares back at him. Searches Sam's face for the faintest trace of regret over what he just said, but when he doesn't find anything, he turns around, grabs his jacket and walks towards the door. When he's opened it, he turns back to Sam, opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything. Dean walks outside and slams the door shut without giving Sam anything to be ashamed of, not anything that can even resemble blame towards him. Nothing except Sam's own thoughts.

And the silence.

Sam stares at the door for almost a minute after Dean's gone. Then he turns around. His gaze falls on the spot on the bed where he laid a little while ago.

Sam crawls back up on the mattress. Rolls over to his back, stares at the ceiling for a second before he closes his eyes.

When they were kids, Sam would collapse on the bed like this when they came home from a hunt that had been particularly straining. One of those hunts that had been inches away from killing either Dean or him, when Sam would come home and feel like his bones were jelly. He'd lie down and close his eyes, and if Dean were in a good mood, or if he'd just been as terrified of losing Sam as Sam had been of losing him, Sam would soon hear the mattress creek right next to his head, dipping from Dean's weight. Then he'd feel the tips of his brothers fingers in his hair, stroking it slowly, without saying anything, until Sam's breathing had evened out, until the world had stopped spinning and everything was somewhat okay again, until the filthy motel mattress and this life that he somehow knew that he hated was all that he needed, as long as Dean kept stroking his hair like this.

Sam lies on his back for a long time. Keeping his eyes closed. Waiting.

Dean doesn't come back. Even though he should know that no matter what Sam says, this is when he needs him to stroke his hair more than ever.


	4. Can't Love You From Afar

A/N: Hi, remember me? I was given sweet reviews and people actually reading my feeble attempt of awesome Wincest, and then I randomly went away. XD I'm really sorry. Real life and school has been a bitch. You should've seen me when I haven't written in weeks, though. I'm like a junkie on withdrawal. But either way, as reward for your patience (if you're still interested, heh) is… Well, no major smut-fest, but… Well, you'll see.

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**3: Can't Love You From Afar**

They're so different. Dean can ignore it most of the time, but as he strides out of the hotel room and up to the Impala, it's more clear to him than ever.

It's not the shallow stuff. He's heard it more than once, and not even always from people who know the real them. Sometimes, even the people they meet that know them as detectives Johnson and Davis ask him how they can work together so well, they're so different, and Dean knows that they talk about how Sam is soft and caring, and Dean is efficient in a way that sometimes borders to gruff. Sam is emotional, Dean keeps it inside and expects other people to do the same, and that's what other people see. These adorably sitcom-differences between them, and if these were the only ones they had, they might've worked well together.

But as it is, there's so much more to them than that.

Dean can bottle things up until it gives him brain tumors, but he knows when it's vital that he talks to Sam about what's going on. Sam can speak his emotions about the smaller things, but not when his own life is at stake.

Dean pushes everyone away, but the ones he really loves, he clings to like his life depends on it, which most of the time, it does. Sam can give his poor little heart away to everyone, but the ones that care about him more than anything, he can keep an arm's length away.

But only if it hurts himself, of course. Because in the end, Sam doesn't think that he himself is that important.

Dean sits down in the front seat of the Impala. He actually doesn't feel that angry, or hurt, he really doesn't, so he doesn't get why his hands tremble when he lifts them to the wheel.

They're so different. It's always been that way. And in a way, he's happy, because for the life of him, he doesn't want Sam to be like him. He's a black-souled, self-hating mess, and Sam is good, he's a good, pure heart that Dean has done his best not to infect with his darkness. Seems like a bit of a waste, considering the way he is now… But Dean swears to that if he ever finds that fucking yellow-eyes that does this to his little brother, he's not going to need any silver bullets, he's going to rip him apart with his own two hands.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean mumbles after a few seconds and turns the ignition key.

He's not exactly sure what he means by that.

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In Sam's dream, Dean crawls into bed with him, back after a few hours of stubborn sulking. Neither of them really want to apologize after they have a fight, but by the time they man up and do it, they both do it at the same time, frenetically. Basically begging one another for forgiveness, even though they both know that there is next to nothing either of them can do that would be unforgivable.

Maybe according to the rest of the world. From that point of view, they're probably already damned. But not to each other.

Sam hums softly when he feels Dean sit down on the edge of his bed. Always that childish feeling of complete security he gets when he's near.

"Dean, I'm sorry I said that," he says without opening his eyes. "You were… Just looking out for me."

He would never be this straight-forward about it if this were really happening.

"I always do," Dean says.

Sam feels him putting his hand on his arm, stroking his thumb back and forth slightly. Dean wouldn't be this affectionate if it weren't a dream, either. It's a sure sign of their traditional, Winchester dysfunction that Sam feels happier with the Dean in his subconscious than with the real him.

"Sammy," Dean says, his voice a low murmur. "I need you to be careful."

Sam's never heard his voice this way. It makes him scared, but he's not sure of what.

"Of course," he says simply.

"No," Dean says, moving his hand up to Sam's neck, sudden warmth and rough sweetness. "I need you to take care of yourself. Because I'm nothing without you. Nothing is anything without you."

Sam still doesn't open his eyes. But now, it's because he's afraid of whatever look Dean has on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing is anything without you."

And then, there's a bang that makes Sam jump. He flies probably half a yard up on the bed, but as he feels Dean collapse over his legs, he still doesn't open his eyes, squeezes them shut because not even in a dream does he want to see what it is, that warm thing that drips out of the hole in Dean's head and soaks through his jeans.

But he doesn't have to open his eyes to know that Dean is dead. He's taken his gun and shot himself in the head.

A couple of seconds of deadly panic. And then Sam wakes up.

The second he opens his eyes, he shuffles back on the bed until he's sitting in the corner where the headboard meets the wall, folding his gangly legs beneath him. He always did this when he was younger and had a nightmare, sitting in a place where he had full view of the room, pretending not to want to wake up Dean, but always making an unnecessary amount of noise. And then Dean woke up, of course, not telling Sam that monsters weren't real, but keeping his thoughts preoccupied with card games the rest of the nights.

Monsters are real. Very real. And somehow, they find Sam even though he's supposed to have all the knowledge he needs to take them down.

He only sits like that for a few minutes, pressed against the wall, heart pounding. Then he stands up and walks towards the door, even though he has to look over his shoulder about three times in the distance between the bed and the hallway.

There's a convenience store nearby. Dean has definitely taken the car, but Sam can walk. Anything to get alcohol, and anything to get out of here, this damn hotel room where he has to listen to his thoughts.

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It's already dark by the time Dean works up the nerve to go back to the hotel. He's spent hours just driving in circles, basically, going to a bar a couple of miles away but not even having it in him to flirt with the cute girl eyeing him at the counter. Thing is, when he fights with Sam, no matter how insignificant and petty the fight is, it throws his entire day off game.

Not when it's about what show to watch or when Sam accuses him of stealing all the hot water in the shower. But at times like these, when they say things with the intention of hurting, and all the things they spend so much energy bottling up comes out.

Dean can't look Sam in the eye for hours afterwards. Even though Sam usually says things just as hurtful to him.

When he unlocks the door, it's dark, but Dean knows Sam hasn't left the room, one instinct you get as a privilege you get when you're a hunter and love that stupid kid more than life in itself. For a second, he thinks that he's sleeping, before he sees his silhouette against the window.

"Sammy," he says as he closes the door. "What are you doing, sitting in the dark?"

Sam doesn't answer right away. His chin is resting heavily in his hand, and Dean almost thinks he's sleeping, but sitting up.

"Sam?" he turns on the light on the nightstand. Sam squints like Dean just shone a flashlight straight into his eyes.

"Dude…" he whines. "I like it in the dark…"

There's something about the way he talks. When Dean walks up to him and takes a closer look at his face, Sam bursts into a lazy giggling fit, and Dean sighs to himself. Their fight is forgotten by now. Partly because Sam is clearly not in the state to fight, and partly because Dean knows that they have something to worry over that's much more terrifying than their stupid arguments.

"Are you drunk?"

Sam mockingly glares back at him

"Yeah. So?" He cocks his head like Dean's ignorance is endearing. "Stupid."

Dean looks at Sam. He feels the beer on his breath and the heat from his skin. And for some reason, it still feels like he's fifty feet away.

"Dude, what were you thinking?" he asks, tiredly, because he doesn't know what else to ask. "We're working a case."

Sam just shakes his head. He doesn't seem to have heard what Dean said.

"You remember… When we got here?" he mumbles. "That guy who'd… Who'd fallen down those stairs and broke his neck?" He shakes his head. Dean doesn't answer. Sam is somewhere far away from his comforting big-brother reach, anyway. "I should've saved him."

Dean hears in his voice that this is a thought that's been ringing through Sam's head since he put that first beer to his lips. It's something that logic doesn't work on, but Dean still does his best. Even though, as usual, that isn't good enough.

"What are you talking about?" he says, trying to sound comforting. "You didn't know. You couldn't have done anything."

To this, Sam reacts. His eyes shoot to Dean's face, and ironically, when he does, Dean wants him to look away again.

"That's no excuse, Dean," Sam hisses. "I should've found a way to save him. I should've… I should've saved Ava, too."

Dean studies his brother. Sometimes, he forgets that Sam is a grownup now, he admits that. But at times like these, Sam feels like that twelve year-old again, that little kid that's so thoughtful that Dean heart aches for how much pain that's going to cause him. The boy that can be sad for an entire day because he's stepped on a spider, or because he saw a homeless man on the street that no one gave any change to. And the worst part is that no matter how hard Dean has worked on not turning Sam into someone like him, someone with the whole "you gotta crack a few eggs to make an omelet"-way of thinking, at times like this, he wants just that for him.

Sam is too good to try to clean up everyone else's mess all the time.

"Well, you can't save everyone," Dean settles for saying. "Even you said that."

"No, Dean, you don't understand, alright?" Sam explodes. "The more people I can save, the more I can change!"

"Change what?"

"My destiny, Dean!" Sam says, with pressure on every syllable. Dean sighs. This is something they're going to have to deal with when Sam has sobered up. Even though he doesn't really want to hear it then, either, doesn't want any of that self-blaming crap for his Sammy.

"Alright, time for bed," he concludes, stands up and grabs Sam's arms. "Come on, Sasquatch. Come on…"

He tries to drag Sam off to bed. Sam puts up a half-hearted attempt that Dean could probably dismantle, but he does have the leverage of those freakishly long limbs.

"I need you to watch out for me," Sam says and wriggles out of his grasp.

"Yeah. I always do."

There's a bitterness in his voice that not even he's sure where it's coming from.

"No, no, no," Sam slurs when Dean finally gets him down on the bed. Drunk as he may be, he still manages to get an iron grip on Dean's upper arms. "You have to watch _out_ for me. Alright? And if I ever turn into something that I'm not…" _Shut up, Sammy, just shut up, I don't want to hear it,_ "you have to kill me."

Dean is not at all surprised. He half-suspected this even before dad said it, but after that, he knew that Sam would say it at some point. Just like him to pull some self-sacrificing bullshit when he knows that Dean is nothing without him.

"Sam…" he argues, trying to pretend he has a say in this.

"Dean!" Sam snaps. "Dad told you to do it. You have to."

"Yeah, well, dad's an ass," Dean bites back, and fuck, that burning lump in his throat is annoying. "He never should've said anything! You don't do that, you don't put that kind of crap on your kids!"

"No," Sam says and shakes his head with an enormous movement. "He was right to say it! Who knows what I might become? Even now, everyone around me _dies!"_

Dean looks him in the eye. Thinks a bunch of things, most of them along the lines of _yeah, well, what the fuck do you think _I'll_ do if you're gone, I love you, how can you ask something like that, you selfish _fuck, _please hold me and take this away. _

"Well, I'm not dying," is the closest thing he gets to any of that. "And neither are you. Come on, lie down."

He tries to push Sam down on his back, but Sam tightens his grip on his arms. Dean's going to get bruises from this conversation.

"Dean, please." Sam pulls him closer. "You're the only one who can do it. Promise."

That raw, open desperation for Dean to end his life.

"Don't ask that of me," Dean says, he begs.

"Dean, please," Sam repeats. "You have to promise me."

Dean looks back at his brother. Trying to make his mind go blank. Think that Sam won't remember this in the morning. Think that he won't ask this again.

"I promise."

His voice sounds unusually deep. Sam looks into his eyes, glittering in the glow from the old-fashioned streetlight outside the window. Such adoration and such despair. Dean isn't familiar with the feeling that bubbles up inside him.

"Thanks," Sam says. "Thank you…"

He puts his hands around Dean's face. Dean tries to smack them off, and as usual, Sam won't do anything Dean wants him to do, so he keeps his hands there, pulls Dean closer, closer.

It was probably meant to be just a hug, Sam isn't sure, but one second, he feels Dean's breath on his face, and the next, a pair of lips is on his, and it's so weird that it actually takes him a few seconds to realize that they're Dean's, his brother's.

Just a soft brush at first, before one of them opens his mouth, maybe it's both of them, and then they kiss properly, warm and wet, Sam tasting of beer, Dean of tears he's been holding in the back of his throat ever since he came back.

It only lasts a second. Sam has no idea how he got them into this situation, and he has no idea if he wants to go on with it, but before he has a chance to make up his mind, Dean huffs in annoyance and pulls away, yanking Sam's hands from his face.

"Goddamn it, Sammy," he grumbles and straightens up. "Just go to sleep."

It's possible that he blushes, it's too dark to see. And either way, Sam is too drunk to care about what just happened. He just stares stupidly at Dean for a few seconds, before he registers the fact that he's been given a direct order, and then lies down. He goes to sleep right away, and left awake is Dean, staring at his brother, with the taste of him left on his lips.


	5. Wasted Efforts

A/N: Hello there, fellow Wincesters! How have you been doing? Have you been on the edge of your seats for the past month, waiting for my update? XD Fear not, I have a fairly lengthy chapter right here and it involves… Well, I'm going to be frank. It involves smut. And I hope you like it. ^^

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**4: Wasted Efforts**

After Dean's put him down on the bed, Sam sleeps for about fourteen hours. Dean spends two of them in the room, pretending to do other things, but always keeping one eye on him, his Sammy, just to make sure that he doesn't wake up and feels lost, cast out in that way he feels a lot of the time. When he's positive that he's out like a light, Dean goes downstairs to the owner of the hotel, and tells her that his brother has gotten his fill on antique dolls, and they'll be leaving first thing in the morning.

As soon as Sam's out of bed, Dean stuffs him in the car, too pissed off to explain why they're calling off the hunt and Sam's too tired to resist. Dean makes sure to get them out of the state before finding a motel, leaves Sam in there and then goes to the nearest convenience store, buys food, snacks and booze, a constant cold knot in his stomach and when he goes back to the motel and finds that Sam is slouched in front of the TV, he for some reason feels like he walked up on a roof just in time to pull a jumper off the ledge.

Dean puts the stuff he bought in the mini bar fridge and sits down on the bed next to Sam. They don't leave the room for the next three days.

Sam spends pretty much that entire time drunk. Dean doesn't mind. Doesn't care one damn bit that the one damn thing he cares about in the world stumbles around a gloomy hotel room with a tiny bottle of vodka, almost disappearing in his big hand. His numbness is a comfortable, cool blanket, something easing up the clammy mist under his sheets at night, sweaty and nervous and not sleeping one second because Sam isn't. Sammy's writhing back and fort on his bed, and his eyes might be closed, but he's not sleeping. And whatever it is he's doing, Dean wishes he'd stop, because he can't sleep through his little brother's damn whimpering and muffled sobbing.

Sam is usually the one thing that wakes him from this feeling. Dean has gone his entire adult life feeling nothing but bitterness, dark satisfaction when he kills something, and that thing he feels for Sam. But now, Sam makes him feel more bitter than ever, Dean doesn't know why, but either way, he doesn't care what he does. If drinking is the only way Sam can keep his demons at bay, so be it.

_Because you can't do it, can't do it the same way he does it for you. _

"You think we'll ever be normal?"

Sammy's sitting on the bathroom floor, leaned against the shower door, for some reason. Dean turns page in his paper. Weird how the world is still moving forward out there, on the other side of the cracked paint of the motel room door.

"Not really."

Sam huffs in either a laugh or annoyance, and tosses his tiny liquor bottle aside.

"Why not?"

"It's too late for us, Sammy," Dean says. "You tried, look what happened to you. You went to college, and met up with me again just to find out that you had demon blood in you. It has karma written all over it."

Sam leans his head back against the lime-stained plastic of the shower cabinet. His bangs are getting too long again, hanging curly-damp in his face. Dean wants to reach out and touch them.

"I really wanted it to work out with Jess," he says, seemingly talking to the door frame of the bathroom. "Even if she never... Understood me, I wanted it to work. She still loved me. And who else would fuckin' love me, huh? Who else would love me?"

Dean turns page again. He can't look at Sam anymore.

"You're very lovable, Sammy. When you're sobered up, we'll get you in a shower and out in a bar somewhere. If you leave out the part with the ghost-hunting and the fact that you haven't introduced yourself with your real name since you were nine, maybe you'll get some chick on her knees in the bathroom."

Sam huffs again. Dean thinks he's about to cry, but then his voice grows into a full-blown cackle, echoing against the tiles.

Sam's always been a happy drunk. But for some reason, this sound is more heartbreaking than his crying at night.

"Yeah, right. And I'm also going to have to leave the part with us out, right?"

Dean doesn't answer. Stares into the paper, feeling a burning lump forming in his throat. Sam giggles again, and tosses his now empty bottle in his direction. It bounces off the bed in front of him.

"Or maybe they'll think it's a turnon? I haven't chased tail in a long time, Dean. Do chicks like guys that want to fuck their brothers?"

Dean sighs theatrically. Making fun of Sam will hopefully distract him from the gaping hole of pure and utter self-disgust that opens up inside him.

"I don't know, man. It might work if you go on top."

Sam seems to think this is very amusing. He laughs again, even louder. Dean wants to kick him in the face. Really hard.

"Yeah. I'd go on top. You'd love it."

Dean doesn't answer. Sees Sam's venomous grin, blurry in the background.

"You would. You'd love my cock inside you, Dean. Wouldn't you? Haven't you thought about it?"

_I hate you. Shut up, I fucking hate you. _

"Wouldn't you like my cock in your pretty little ass, Dean? You've thought about how it'd feel like. I know you have."

Pause.

"I bet you're tight."

Dean tosses the magazine across the room as something inside him breaks, something precious and utterly loathsome, like the first sip of alcohol for an addict who's been clean for six months, and he takes two big strides up to Sam, who just sits there, little _bitch, _just sitting there with that _fucking _grin on his face.

"Sam, I don't want to hear it," he hisses through gritted teeth, and Sam's grin finally goes away. "I don't want to hear a fucking thing you've got to say. Just shut up and drink your fucking booze and maybe _one _of us will get some sleep tonight."

Sam looks up at him, with those stupid bangs covering half of his face. Even through the haze of alcohol, he sees that Dean is serious. That doesn't make him feel the least bit better.

"Kiss me goodnight."

Sam says it gravely, craning his head back further. Parting his lips. Dean sighs, leaning against the doorframe.

If Sam knew how hard this was for him, he wouldn't do this to him. But the worst part is, Dean knows that Sam knows, and he still does it. Which probably means that Sam actually thinks this is a good idea. Even after they've both spent all these years denying.

"Do it, and I'll sleep tonight. You've done it before. It's no big deal. Come on."

Dean sees the tip of Sam's tongue behind his teeth. God, he just wishes he'd stop doing this.

"Fuck you, Sammy."

Dean is able to say it steadily. But when he turns around to go to his bed, those damn tears fall down anyway.

When he lies down, Dean thinks about what Sam mentioned. All those days and nights. They were just kids, it didn't mean anything. They'd go to bed and Sam peppered Dean's face with kisses and Dean pretended to be annoyed at first, before breaking down in a fit of laughter and wrap his arms around the skinny little body next to him. They'd walk to school together and before they went to their separate classes, Dean gave Sam that big, wet kiss right between his eyes and Sammy scrunched his whole face together but loved every second of it.

He has no idea how they went from that to this.

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They could've left it at that, but of course they can't. Sam can't, anyway, because he's drunk and miserable, so he crawls into Dean's bed that night, and Dean's just miserable, so he should be able to push Sam away, but he can't. He feels those warm, long limbs splayed out above him and it's either because he's pissed off or he's lonely, but either way, he gives up.

"Dean..." Sam whines, and Dean can't say no to him when he sounds like that, they both know that. "Please... I can't take it, it's..."

_Damn it, Sammy. Damn you. _

Dean puts his hand on the back of Sam's neck and violently pulls him down to him. Sam's lips meet his before he's really ready for it, his lips are closed and unprepared while Dean's are open and hard, it's sloppy and teethy and Sam's whine is quieted down to a displeased grumble, but Dean doesn't care. He's so mad at Sam right now, he almost wants to punch him more than he wants to fuck him, and he's going to give it to him, give it to him so he sees how it feels, just how it is to be filthy and wrong inside out.

When Sam's gotten used to it, he kisses Dean back, but at that point, Dean's taken control. His tongue is roaming Sam's mouth, and he's already half-hard. Sam tastes just the way he always imagined, sweet and clean and earthy, and Dean braids his fingers into his hair to push him down further.

He expected Sam to put up a fight, but he doesn't. Maybe this is just what he needs right now, maybe he always knew that it'd end up like this, and that makes Dean even madder. He doesn't want this for Sam, for fucks sake, he wanted a normal life for him. He kept away from this for so long because he knew that Sam's not meant for this, for this Freudian nightmare that is an ordinary Winchester life. Why he keeps diving head-first into it, Dean will never understand.

Sam wraps both arms around Dean's waist. It feels too affectionate, and Dean gets scared, but pushes it away by digging his nails into Sam's scalp as his other hand roughly feels the smooth skin under his soiled t-shirt. He feels the heavy muscles in his back, Sam's body that he's so familiar with, it's so, so wrong, but they've been heading for this their entire lives, and if Sam's so fucking keen on the idea of giving into it, he's going to get it. Hard.

Dean easily flips Sam over, almost tears his shirt when he pulls it over his head, his hand jittery with anger and the thought _this is what you want, you little bastard? You want to get fucked by your big brother? You're going to give up your white picket fence for this, huh? Then _fucking take it.

"Dean..." Sam gasps when Dean yanks his pants down. His cock springs free, already hard. Dean looks down at it, his stomach gives a lurch of desire at the same time as he's struck with the wrongness of the situation. This is Sammy, his Sammy, in the meantime as it's his _Sam,_ the one person he's ever truly wanted in his life, wanted since he was old enough to know what that want meant. He knows that now.

He's suppressed it for as long as he could. He couldn't turn back here if he wanted to.

Dean lowers himself over Sam's hips. He works over his lower abdomen at first, slathering over his hip bones and dipping his tongue briefly into his navel and kissing down until Sam's hips are stuttering up, Dean realizes that he won't be able to take it anymore, and then, trying not to put too much thought into it, takes his cock in his mouth.

Dean's good at giving blowjobs, he knows that. Judging by Sam's strangled moan, he doesn't seem to object. Usually when he does this, he tries to focus on the moment, thinking of the taste and the sounds and his own hard-on pressing into the mattress, but not now. Dean tries for the life of him to let his mind wander, but he can't. Wherever he looks, whatever else he tries to think of, the one thought in his mind is the fact that he's sucking his little brother's dick.

"_Fuck!" _Sam chokes out when Dean pulls back and pushes back down. Dean tastes his own tears behind the precome and salty tang of Sam's skin.

He wasn't supposed to do this. It's the one promise he's ever made to himself he's considered worth keeping.

Sam comes roughly five minutes later. When he does, Dean swallows obediently, keeps Sam inside until he's softened and then scoots up on the mattress. Usually, he'd go sleep in the other bed, but he doesn't now.

Everything's ruined, anyway. So Dean just lies down, his back facing Sam, who's still just lying there, trying to catch his breath, riding on the aftershocks of his orgasm.

That Dean gave him.

_You just sucked off your baby brother. _

Dean bites his lip. It doesn't help one damn bit that he can still taste Sam on them and that they're still swollen from kissing, so he just gives up, lets the tears fall down again.

_You just sucked off your baby brother. _

Considering what a high he seems to be on, it takes Sam a surprisingly short period of time before he realizes that Dean's crying. Dean feels his hand on his arm. Those damn hands.

How they seem to find him no matter how hard he tries to hide.

"Dean..." Dean has to bite his lip harder to keep from sobbing when he hears Sam's tone. "Dean, don't cry..."

Sam's actually sober, Dean can hear that. He actually cares. And Dean still doesn't want him there.

"Don't touch me," he hisses, still looking out across the room.

It takes a few seconds. But then Sam takes his annoying hand away. Good. _Good. _

Everything's always been easier when Sam just leaves him alone. When he can just letting Dean free from caring of anything but himself and his own slow, internal dying.


	6. Leave This To Me, Little Brother

YAY! Another chapter! Sorry for the wait, AGAIN. I haven't really been in a writing mood lately. These boys know I can't quit on them for a longer period of time, though…

**5: Leave This to Me, Little Brother**

Not even the night after Sam left Stanford. The night after mom died, that night after the Shtriga almost killed Sam. _(And that was your fault, your fault, you should've) _

None of those nights are as bad as this one.

Nothing will ever feel worse than how Dean feels, squeezing his eyes shut but not sleeping. Black slimy snake writhing in his stomach, _what have you done, what have you done, _with Sam sleeping the alcohol off next to him.

Squeezing his eyes shut. Not sleeping. Never sleeping again.

Sammy next to him.

_Should've never done that to you, ruined everything, everything_

_What did Dad say? _

_Look after Sammy._

_(Maybe he didn't mean it that way, huh) _

_Stop it. Please. _

Fuck, he's still hard.

_What did Dad say? _

Sam moaning. His Sammy.

Dean's not sure when, it could be hours or minutes after _(you swallowed your little brother's cum) _they went to bed that Sam rolls over, one of those enormous hands splaying across his abdomen, sneaking under his shirt.

_Look after Sammy. _

Sneaking into his boxers. On his hard-on, just the right pressure, circling, grinding. Sam jerks him off, slowly and steady, perfect, _perfect _hand, Dean blows his load in his little brother's hand and while he does can't focus on anything but keeping himself from forming that half-choked moan to Sam's name.

_You ruined everything. Everything. _

Then Dean stands up and walks into the bathroom, a string of cum connecting his thighs, so _disgusting, _falls to his knees in front of the toilet and throws up everything he's eaten today. Until Sammy comes and drags him to his feet, Dean remains on the floor, staring into his own vomit.

The slimy black snake doesn't seem to have come up with the rest. Explains why he feels just as disgusting as before.

xxxxxxxxxxx

The dawn is just breaking when Dean gets out of bed. He hasn't slept all night, and Sam has pretended to sleep for most of the time, but Dean knows when Sam's faking it. He's sleeping for real now.

Dean gets up, steps into his shoes. He's slept fully clothed, his t-shirt's stunk up with night-old horror sweat, but what the hell. If someone sees him, Dean bets the look on his face will be more terrifying than his lack of hygiene.

He slips out the door, closing it behind him with a minimum amount of noise. The panic is still pocking at his consciousness, right beneath the surface, but he's spent the majority of the night forcing himself to either breathe or not to vomit, and his body's drained. Right now, he feels okay. Focused. The morning air is crisp, misty, he sees the contours of the nearby diner through the fog. A red neon sign buzzing tiredly.

Dean walks down from the steps outside the motel room door. How weird is it that the closest he can feel to home is the stairs outside a cheap motel in Massachusetts, surrounded by nothing but rain and highway?

And how sad and beautiful is it that the only reason he feels at home here is because of the hung-over, sad young man on the other side of the door?

He walks across the parking lot, casts a glance at the Impala and decides, for the first time in his life, that he's actually going to take a walk, and then keeps walking down the road. He doesn't want to think about what to do about Sam, but it's inevitable. At the best of times, Sammy's all he thinks about.

He remembers things. That stuff that happened when times weren't exactly easy, but a goddamn picnic compared to how it is now.

He remembers trying to make five year-old Sammy get that they couldn't get married when they grew up. That he was going to marry a pretty girl, and that brothers didn't love each other that way. Sammy never got it. He insisted that he loved Dean in _every _way.

He remembers Sam being thirteen, going on his first date, all dolled up and nervous as hell, standing in the doorway, ready to go. He remembers Sam asking him what he should do if she wanted him to kiss her, and Dean saying that he just kisses her, how hard can it be. And then Sam asked Dean how he'd do that, and Dean just put his lips to his, saying just like that, and Sam blushing, and even though he didn't want to tell Dean afterwards how his date went, Dean knew that whatever he did with that girl that night, it couldn't have gone as smooth and carefree and soft as that kiss in the doorway.

The way Dean remembers it, there was nothing sexual at all about that. Not about teaching Sam how to kiss, not about all the times in their teens when Sam walked in on him with his head between some chick's legs, her thighs on his shoulders. Not about all the times they get changed in the same room, not bothering to cover themselves up, because hell, it's not like they don't know what it looks like, and seeing his thigh muscles shift under the edge of his boxers. Seeing his Sammy's abs before they disappear under his tee.

He likes to remember them as what they should be. Love between brothers. Weird fucking love, twisted relationship, just pain on top of pain on top of an alcoholic father and the only thing keeping it together is good intentions.

He'd rather have that than this. Because whatever they had was at least manageable. It was what he was used to.

This, he has no idea how to handle.

Dean walks around for a couple of more hours. When he gets hungry, he goes to the diner. He likes to pretend that even though Sam's literally twenty yards away, he's untouchable as long as he stays in the sticky, obnoxiously red booth eating his cheeseburger. But after a while, it just feels stupid, and he's about to leave, but stops on the way out, goes back to the counter and asks for a hamburger to go.

If Sam's not hungry when they have this conversation, it might be more durable.

He's not sure exactly what he expects to find when he opens the door. The only thing he's really hoping for, despite how convenient that condition has been for him these past couple of days, is for Sam not to be drunk; his stomach clench up a little more when he thinks of the high possibility of that. But when Dean unlocks the door, he sees Sam through the open bathroom door, brushing his teeth sloppily, staring at himself in the mirror with a blank expression. Dean puts the bag with the hamburger on the table next to the TV. It's abnormally scrunched up at the handle, he must've clutched to it tight.

"Thought you might be hungry."

"Thanks," Sam says, hocking out a mouthful of toothpaste in the sink. He always uses too much toothpaste. When they were kids, he used to get a thick layer of it dribbling down his chin, got his pajamas all stained. Why are these memories so painful all of the sudden?

"How are you feeling?" Dean asks, taking careful steps up to the bathroom door. Every hit of his shoe against the carpet sounds as dull and grave as his own heartbeats.

Sam doesn't answer right away. He spits out some more paste, puts a ridiculous amount of effort into rinsing his toothbrush, before giving Dean a dark look through the mirror.

"Please don't do that again."

"What?"

"You know what. It's bad enough waking up without you there, it almost never happens without you being in danger of your life, and what the hell am I supposed to think when you're gone after something like that?"

Dean scoffs. Tries to ignore the chilling streak going through his chest when he sees the way Sam looks. Must be the fact that he's always measured his worth by the way Sam looks at him.

"What did you think I'd do? There's not a lot of strip joints in this town."

"You know what the fuck I mean," Sam bites back and turns around. "Don't do that to me. I've stopped hoping that you'll just talk to me when something's wrong, all I ask is that you don't leave without telling me. Okay?"

Dean has to swallow another sarcastic comment, remembering his promise to himself when he entered the room. If they're going to do this, it's not going to be a fight. If they go down that road, they're never going to be able to have a real talk about it, as damn stubborn as they are.

"I promise to stay within shouting distance," Dean says bitterly. "Now, with that cleared out, I think you owe me some goddamn explanations."

He doesn't really know what he wants to accomplish with this. The one reason he hasn't put a bullet through his head right now is that it's only _happened _at this point. They haven't had to _talk _about it. He doesn't know what's going to happen when they do. Not sure he wants to.

He can tell that Sam has a defensive answer to his statement, but that he, too, tries to bite it down. Dean isn't sure if he prefers that. When Sam instead lowers his gaze and leans against the edge of the sink, he just looks so small.

"I don't have any," Sam says, keeping his eyes somewhere around Dean's shoes. "I don't know what was wrong with me. You were just there, and I… I wanted it."

The last part is barely more than a mumble. Weird how it can still hit Dean like a punch in the gut.

This is technically just another sick Winchester thing that they could ignore.

So why does it feel like he's been caught in a life-long lie? Like he's walked around his entire life wearing green contacts, everyone's bought it and now, someone's suddenly walked up to him and torn them right out of his eyes?

"And somewhere along the line, you forgot the fact that I'm your brother?" He doesn't intend for it to come out the way it does. Like a growl.

Sam shrugs. He doesn't even look hung over anymore. Just tired.

"Dean, I've been drunk for the past two days. I don't know half of the shit I've put you through during that time, or what I've said or… But I remember what we did. And I don't regret a damn thing. I just wanted to be with you, to feel…"

His voice dies out. Just stands there, looking like a wing-clipped angel.

Dean wants to scream. He wants to punch Sam in the face. He wants to at least think of something clever to say, something that'd punch away this allegation Sam throws at him, because that's what it feels like, an allegation, like Sam's mumbled-out confession is actually something that Dean should say, even though Dean wants nothing more than to bury it deep and go on with their stupid fucking _fucked up _life.

But he can't do that. Because he knows exactly which word Sam's looking for.

"Safe?" he gets out between gritted teeth.

"Yeah," Sam says, nodding along.

That alone is proof that this isn't something that they're going to be able to ignore. No matter how carefully they've pushed it away until now.

"We can't do this, Sammy," Dean says when he's managed to find words that can formulate at least half of the things he's feeling. "We just can't. And you're not thinking straight. You just found out that you have demon blood in you, you've been whining about it since then, and this just seems like a simple solution."

Sam gives him a look like "are we _really _going to do this?" Dean pretends to be unyielding, staring right back.

"Yeah, that's the nice and easy explanation," Sam bites back. "This is just another thing that makes me fucked up. And you know what, maybe it is. But it's what I want. I get that now, even if it took me about ten years."

Dean starts shaking his head before Sam's even finished the sentence.

"No," he says, speaking to the floor.

"What?"

"No."

Pause. On top of buzzing of the fluorescent lights, the silence sounds erratic.

"Think of everything you wanted, Sammy," Dean says, meeting his eyes again. "Think of Jesse, how good you felt around her. Fuck, you were going to graduate, get married. This apple-pie business where you felt _safe, _like… Real safe, not… Fucked up safe_. _How the hell would you go from wanting that to… This? It's not for you, none of this is."

Hoping that Sam will understand. Hear that this isn't Dean demanding, he's begging, pleading, just walk away from this, just let me be in this alone.

"I couldn't do this to you, Sammy. To myself, fine, but never to you."

Sam gets this look in his eyes sometimes when he's looking at Dean. Like he can't stand loving such an idiot. That look gets even worse when it's shiny with unshed tears, like it is now, but Dean's just going to ignore it.

He walks out of the bathroom, turns on the TV. If he can just get rid of that damn buzzing from the lights and doesn't have to look at his brother's face, things are going to get good again. He's sure of that.


	7. Too Late

A/N: Yeah, well… Short chapter is short. XD Sorry about that. This is my first ever Wincest-fanfic, and I'm still a bit awkward about the whole pairing. (Not that it's not awesome, I'm just not sure what to do with it when I'm supposed to mold this clay of awesomeness into something readable) But for bearing with me, I love the hell out of all of you.

**6: Too Late**

Somehow, Dean manages to keep himself from running off that day. It's a combination of bad television, junk food, and Sam looming in the background instead of being all up in his face with his feelings.

It wouldn't be unlike him to run away. Find some stupid excuse. In a blank, cold way, he's kind of proud of himself, though. When Sam told him that he was leaving for Stanford, Dean spend the entire night smoking pot and drinking, making sure for Sam to be in eyeshot the whole time just so he'd know what Dean was going to be like when he left him. Compared to that, staring blankly into the TV screen isn't that bad.

Sam doesn't talk to him through this. In a way, Dean wants nothing more than for him to do so, but in the end, he prefers it this way. In his selfish moments, he just wants to curl up with Sam, fuck the hunting, forget about the world, the world could consist of nothing but Sam and him in bed for all he cared.

But if he's going to think about what's best for Sam, this is how it's going to be.

Sam probably knows he's thinking that way. He lies on his bed, reading a book, probably making some kind of point by not even watching the same screen as Dean, yup, they're really that far apart just because Dean doesn't want to fuck his brother.

_(What did Dad say?) _

_It can't be wrong if it feels that right _

_(But he's never cared about your feelings)_

_Dad's not here now, is he_

Sam turns page in his book. He seems to put an unnecessary amount of noise into a simple action. Dean glances over at him. Hopes he won't notice. Knows that he does.

_Don't be mad at me, Sammy. I love you. _

_I would only do this if I didn't care about you. _

_None of this is for me. _

_Happiness and that shit. It's not for me. _

xxxxxxxxxxx

Sam comes out of the shower later. Dean knows it's late at night, because the network just started showing reruns of Cold Case episodes that he saw this afternoon.

Sam must know it. When he comes out with the towel loose around his hips, his bangs all damp and ruffled. Eyes dark, or maybe it's just the light.

Sam's definitely, deliberately setting him up. And Dean doesn't care.

He's not sure who moves closer. Maybe Sam crawls up on the bed, maybe Dean pulls him there. Maybe one way or another, he's always been sitting on the edge of the mattress, knees spread so obediently, just waiting for Sam, who fits between them perfectly, their bodies molding together when Dean grabs his neck and pulls him down with him.

Dean can't think about what Dad's told him. He can't think about what's right for Sammy. He can't even think in terms long enough to think that considering how attached he already is to Sam, like the chair under his feet while he's got the noose around his neck, it's probably downright unhealthy for them to get connected this way, too.

He can really only hope that this is going to mess him up even more. Only hope, because he couldn't go back from here if he tried.

Sam tilts his hips up when Dean grabs the towel and drags it off with a wet slap and tosses it away. Eager hands fumbling under Dean's shirt, knowing every inch, probably better than Dean does himself. He knows that he could draw a damn blind map of every birthmark and scar on Sam's skin without even looking.

He's not even sure how Sam gets his clothes off, but he's grateful for it. He's not going to hold out for much longer, and if they're going to do this, he's not going to come in his pants like some fucking teenager.

It's a stupid, reckless thing, that somehow turns into something much deeper.

Dean wishes he could fall asleep afterwards, but can't really drift out when Sam's arm is around his waist. Every nerve in his body ignited and hot.

xxxxxxxxxxx

The morning light slowly creeps in through the curtains. Dean grumbles something and snuggles deeper into the sheets, musky and damp. He's not sure exactly when he fell asleep tonight, but now that he has, he doesn't want to wake up. He could actually sleep without nightmares for once, Sam enclosing him in his bubble of safety and thoughtlessness and all that shit. But he's waking up now, lingering effects of restlessness, his head feels like it's floating lightly above his body.

He's not going to open his eyes. He's never opened his eyes and seen anything being better that day than the day before. He's just going to stay here, next to Sam, all day…

That's when Dean notices how empty the bed is.

He rolls over, flings his arm out to Sam's end of the bed, trying to appear like a single drop of ice didn't just land in his stomach.

_(who are you appearing to when you're alone) _

Sam's not there. Dean sits up, looks around the room. Sam's always quiet when he wakes up before him, he could be in here, he could…

_(He's not here.) _

Dean stumbles out of the bed. Looks around again. Then to the bathroom door, banging it open so hard that it leaves a dent in the wall, but Sam's not there, either. Dean even pulls the shower curtain aside, turns around to look around the bedroom again, puts a hand over his mouth and doesn't even notice that it's trembling.

_He's gone. _

_No, he's not. Stop it. Stop it. _

Dean walks up to the front door, opens it, so scared that he doesn't care one damn bit that he's still naked. Steps out onto the deck. The Impala's still on the parking lot, the grounds are empty, painted pale by the morning light. But Sam could've gone to get breakfast, of course he'd walk, he doesn't take the car unless he has to, never…

Sam could be gone somewhere. Anywhere else except for in Dean's eyesight, completely safe and out of trouble.

He could be.

And still, Dean knows that that's not the case.

Just to be sure, he walks back inside and calls Sam's cell phone. He could be fine. He could be. Still. Please.

"Hello, you've reached Sam Winchester's voicemail. I…"

Sam's voice is one of the few things that can make him feel somewhat okay when he feels like this. But right now, it's like an ice block in his stomach where that tiny drop landed before.

Dean strides around the room, collecting the clothes that Sam tore off last night, putting them on even though every instinct he has tells him to just run for the hell of it.

He doesn't think for a second about what they did last night, but if he did, Dean would think about how stupid it was for him to act the way he did about it.

Loving Sam that way is such a tiny fraction of all the levels in which he loves him. And no matter how wrong it is, that wrongness is so small next to what's going on right now.

When he could actually lose him.

Dean runs towards the car, grabbing his duffel with the guns on the way. He has no idea where to go, but somehow, maybe in denial, he's absolutely sure that he's going to find Sam.

In a way, nothing's changed since last night. There's still only one thing on his mind.

_Look after Sammy. _

If he doesn't do it the way Dad would want to, fuck it.


	8. Cut The Hero Crap

A/N: (Pokes supposedly dead fanfic) …hey. Wakey-wakey. Don't just lie there, we have a very small circle of readers to please. (Drags it off the ground and tries to mold it into something presentable) There. Now stand up straight, and let them have a look at you. If they throw eggs, just remember to duck.

Yeah, so… I'm not dead. XD Sorry about the wait. I haven't really been in a state of writing lately, so this was put on hiatus. If anyone's still interested, I've got another chapter, and I hope to god anyone out there is still interesting in reading the damn thing.

**7: Cut the Hero Crap**

"Dean! Dean, look!"

Dean walked up to Sam, standing by the edge of the cliff, pointing at the thing circling below them. He felt the usual stab of fear at the sight of Sam so close, on the very border between safe next to his brother and complete disaster, but luckily, Sam was frozen in the spot. He was staring at the giant bird with the amazement only the young minds could feel, and admittedly, Dean was jealous. Those feelings were long gone for him. Seventeen and already jaded to life's wonders.

He followed Sam's pointed finger to the birds below. They were enormous, even from a distance, and up close, they'd be as tall as Dean standing on his father's shoulders. And these were the things dad planned for them to kill.

"You scared yet, Sammy?" he asked, giving Sam a playful nudge, making sure to grab his sleeve and pull him away from the edge in the process. He could stand living on the road, at this age having been almost killed more times than the average eighty year-old war veteran, all of it. But he couldn't stand the thought of Sam hurt.

Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes, making a bit too much of a show of it for Dean to buy it.

"No. But I still don't get how we're going to do it. I mean, those things…"

He faded out. Dean pointed to a cliff a few feet below the bird, jutting out from the rock wall.

"That's its nest. The place dad's been tracking these couple of weeks. What do you think it keeps there?"

Sam was quiet for a bit, before answering: "its kids."

"Damn straight. Its kids are there, she… it only leaves them to get food. Dad's going to take one of them, lure it down here, where we can burn it."

Sam stared at the cliff, like he could already see the frail little bodies, gaping for the food brought to them out of nothing but thin air and motherly affection.

"Doesn't it know it's going to die when it goes after the kids?" he finally asked. Dean gave him a sideway glance, shifting a little.

"Uh… yeah. I guess. I don't know, I haven't really asked." It didn't come out as a joke. "It wouldn't matter if she… it did. It'd still come. You can't really… you can't really think about that stuff when it's about someone… something… that important."

It didn't go unnoticed to either him or Sam that he already had a hard time calling the bird 'it.'

He'd never had problems distancing himself from the things they had to kill. But it wasn't easy objectifying something so completely driven by love.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Was it always supposed to be this way? Dean doesn't know.

He has no memory of thinking of Sam like that when they were younger. When he longed for Sammy when he was at college, he longed for dimples, wrestling matches, pulling pranks in the backseat of the Impala while waiting for dad to come out of the store, giggling like _actual kids _before he came back, when Dean saw the neck of the Whiskey bottle sticking out of the paper bag he was carrying, and quickly becoming serious.

Now, alone in the Impala, Dean longs for hot, tight skin, insistent tongue, those big hands. But also for the dimples. The companionship, just having someone next to him, loving him no matter what.

He just needs that. That's all. If he can only have it is as either a brother or as a lover, never both, that's fine.

He guesses he must've either thought about Sam for so long that he didn't even feel it anymore, or he didn't know he was thinking it at all.

xxxxxxxxxxx

It probably doesn't take long to find Sam. Dean's never had that much of a concept of time, every day was basically the same, time crept by, and then all the sudden they were in lethal danger or Sam needed to be retreated from some vengeful spirit, and then hours could pass in a black, screeching haze until he had him back, safe.

It probably doesn't take long, but it feels like forever. And when he does find Sam, he's not really in lethal danger. He wouldn't do it, not really. No matter how desperate he sounds when he asks Dean to do it, no matter how often those thoughts flash across his eyes when he thinks Dean can't see.

Dean still approaches him slowly.

_You won't do it, Sam. You wouldn't do that to me. Put the gun down. _

"Don't come any closer."

"You know I will, Sammy. Just relax, okay? Take it easy."

He knew Sam wouldn't be in a place where Dean couldn't find him. In the end, they both want to be found. He had to ride around for a while, but eventually, he found Sam here, in the woods where they burned dad. Kind of hokey, but to be fair, Sam doesn't exactly seem to be thinking straight.

"You're not going to do it."

"Fuck you," Sam sputters. Saliva hanging in strings from his lips, eyes glistening. Vacant, slipping, but there's a tiny piece of him still here, still with Dean, and that's enough for Dean to pull him out of it. Has to be.

"Dean, I… I'm sorry I made you… I…"

"It's not your fault," Dean cuts him off. "You hear me, Sammy? It was never your fault. Hell, I'm not even sure it's my fault. We were just… we were fucked from the start, weren't we?"

He thinks Sammy can hear the joke in it. He hopes he can.

Sam's making these little soft whimpering noises. The gun's trembling, Dean was pretty sure he'd lower it, but then Sam's whole arm starts to shake and he's suddenly very, very afraid that this will be the end of it.

"But it's not _like _that now!" Sam explodes. "I… I _ruined _it! You're the only thing in my life that I… and I just… because I…"

Half-baked sentences; Dean understands, of course he does. That's about as coherent as his own thoughts are right now.

"You didn't ruin anything, Sammy," he says, gravelly. "There's no ruining us."

Sam's eyes; a bit of him coming back. Not crazy Sam, but Dean's Sammy.

"I thought it, too," he goes on. "Okay? I thought… things would be different, but honestly, we're too fucked up for this. When was the last time social norms applied to a Winchester, huh? I mean, look at us! You really think sleeping with your brother is weirder than half the shit dad put us through?"

Trembling against his temple. _Put it down, Sammy. _

"I just want you back," Dean says. "I want you to put that fucking gun down. If you do that, I don't care about what we do afterwards. Fuck, hunt, go and have a burger, whatever. Just come back with me. Stay. And stop worrying about being a freak."

Sam shakes his head. A couple of tears trickling down, the next few words, he chokes out, grimacing, like he's working past years of repression.

"But I… I am a freak."

Dean shakes his head. Sammy. His Sammy.

His Sammy, always so concerned with what people thought of him. Sammy, who could be sad all day if he stepped on a spider. Sammy, so receptive to emotions. Dean knew it'd hurt him one way or the other.

"You're the best person I know," Dean says. "If you're a freak, who the hell cares. Then I am, too. Only a freak could… love another freak this much."

He doesn't say it often. When he does, he does it like this, in subtext. Still sees where it hits Sam, right where it was intended. His eyes clear out, and he's back. Sammy. His Sammy.

"You can't leave me, Sammy. Without you, I'm…"

Dean can't finish the sentence. He's afraid to even finish the thought.

Sam lowers the gun, drops it on the ground with a heavy _clunk, _takes two big strides up to Dean. Dean thought he'd kiss him, but instead, Sam hugs him, bone-crushingly, I-thought-I'd-lost-you-forever-hug.

Eventually, Sam lets go, and then they go back to the Impala.

Like they always do. All that's needed.


End file.
